


Comedies Always End in Weddings

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock realizes he's in love with John--too bad he does so on the eve of John's wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comedies Always End in Weddings

**Author's Note:**

> A Sherlock Secret Santa gift. Quite fluffy, rating for occasional swearing.

 

Though Sherlock Holmes often displayed characteristics of a man who knew nothing or very little about the human heart—figuratively speaking, that is, the _emotional_ heart—he understood it very well. After all, crimes were not committed in a vacuum, and they weren’t only committed for logical reasons. Recognizing and analyzing human emotion was essential to establishing motives for suspects. He could read the hearts of people at a glance just as easily as he could read their physical histories—facial expressions, body language, the tiny hints that words and tones betrayed—all this he knew so well it was hardly a challenge to deduce a person’s emotional state.

But his own heart, well, he never bothered. Sherlock knew himself well enough to not have to turn his piercing eyes inward; hearts were simple things to map and dissect, even his own. Minds, on the other hand, fascinated him because their depths were limitless and ultimately unfathomable. They presented challenge after challenge to him—those beautiful, twisted brains of serial killers and psychopaths wove mysteries that were true delights to unwind. His own mind, he knew, had just as many unprobed depths as anyone else’s—probably more, considering his intellect—but he knew it well and rarely wasted time with introspection.

For this reason, when he awoke on the morning of Christmas Eve, his sadness was unexpected and without an obvious reason. He lazed about in his bed for a long while, having nothing in particular to do—no cases, at the moment, as if criminals took the holidays off, too—and so he eventually turned his considerable powers of deduction in upon himself.

Today was John Watson’s last day as a bachelor. That his best and only friend’s looming wedding was making him so, well, _emo_ , wasn’t hard to figure out, but he wasn’t quite sure why it was upsetting him. On the surface the problem was that John would have less freedom to help Sherlock on his cases, but that was far too simple, and the consulting detective knew it. So he examined the problem in his usual analytical way—pausing to get two nicotine patches from the box that he kept in an old slipper to keep from losing it—and in ten minutes he had solved it.

With the solving came the usual rush of that I’m-so-amazingly-clever pleasure and satisfaction, but it was followed almost immediately by a frown. Sherlock sat back down on his bed, no longer pacing the room while muttering to himself, and sighed.

“Dull,” he muttered, “I’m in love with him. How… _cliché_.” And problematic. Very problematic. He wasn’t sure how he’d gone so long without noticing, but he hadn’t been looking for it. Why would he? Why should a man without a heart worry about falling in love?

Those questions didn’t matter; the only one that did was _what now?_

Sherlock drew his hands together just under his chin, fingertips touching lightly, and thought.

 

Mary had promised him that he would have at least one day free of the stress of planning a wedding, so John woke up with the pleasant feeling of having more or less everything squared away for the following day. He was smiling until he heard the sound of a violin from the floor below him.

His grimace was unnecessary, however, because the violin wasn’t making its usual horrifying almost-music-but-not-close-enough-to-be-bearable noise; Sherlock was playing a song—and it was _beautiful_. For a long while he stayed in bed, just listening, eyes closed, transported by the music, until it occurred to him that he should go downstairs and not only ask why Sherlock was playing honest-to-God music, but to thank him for it.

Dressed and somewhat presentable, he made his way downstairs, entering the living room just as his flatmate began a new song. John leaned against the doorframe and watched Sherlock play for a few minutes, half-mesmerized by the music and the man’s gracefully precise movements.

When the taller man had finished, John asked lightly, “Decided to start playing things that don’t drive people up the wall? Just in time for me to move out, too.”

“Today is your last day as a bachelor, and as my flatmate, so I thought I’d spare you unpleasantness. I don’t have any cases on, anyway,” he added briskly, putting his violin away.

“Well, thank you,” John replied, sincere but a little bemused by Sherlock’s sudden interest in caring about other people’s sanity. “It was lovely. You could be a professional.”

“Dull,” Holmes commented, snapping the case shut. John was surprised to see the man fully and immaculately dressed at this hour, since he himself had just said that he didn’t have any cases going at the moment. Sherlock always dressed neatly when he was planning to go out or receive company, but in the dark times between work the man rarely changed out of his pajamas and robe.

“John,” Sherlock began after a moment, turning and looking at him, his expression serious. Holmes’s tone made the doctor feel suddenly apprehensive, the hesitation in his voice uncharacteristic. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Tell me you didn’t lose the ring,” John said, sitting down and rubbing his eyes. “Just tell me that.”

“What? No, the ring is fine, it’s got nothing to do with that.” Sherlock himself sat down on the couch, opposite his friend. “I just need to tell you something before… before it’s too late.”

Again, hesitation and uncertainty in the man’s words. Watson frowned, wondering what this was all about. He’d never known Sherlock to be so lacking in confidence.

“Okay,” he replied when the pause in Sherlock’s words had grown too long, “Go on.”

“I’m not sure how,” the other said. “I—“

Sherlock’s phone began to ring, and, with an annoyed expression, he pulled it out of his jacket pocket and answered it with a clipped, “Hello? This had better be important.”

The consulting detective’s face changed from annoyed to surprised to blank in less than a second.  John leaned forward, all his concern about what Sherlock had been saying before gone.

“Oh, nice to talk to you again, Moriarty,” Sherlock said casually, “Though I’m rather busy at the moment, so perhaps you could call back in a few days, or never. Either way.”

A few moments later, Sherlock hung up on Moriarty.

“What was all that about?” John asked.

“Nothing really, he was trying to make some threat or something. Not important—“

“Not important! But it’s Moriarty—what if he could have given you some clue to where he is?”

“He’s not an idiot.”

Leaning back in his chair, John wondered what Sherlock had to tell him. It had to be something serious for the man to blow off a phone call with Moriarty.

But before Sherlock could even put his phone away, it rang again. “I swear if you don’t stop—oh, good morning, Detective Inspector.” A pause. “Must I really?” Another. “Well, I am _busy_. No, there’s nothing wrong with me. Fine, it won’t take long to solve at any rate, I already know who’s behind it. Mmhm. Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Sherlock stood. “Sorry, we’ll have to continue this conversation later. Coming?”

“Of course,” John said, rising as well. “What’s happened?”

“Oh, someone set off a bomb about a mile away. It was Moriarty. He’s probably just mad that I told him to shove off.”

“What?!”

 

 

Eyes scanning the area and quickly taking everything in, Sherlock slowly turned until he had seen the entire crime scene. Something like a half-dozen dead, and many more injured. Moriarty really was wasteful with human life. Bombings were not his usual type of investigation, but this bore the same signature as the bombings that Moriarty had been behind previously.

Dull. And of course Moriarty hadn’t made any mistakes; Sherlock learned nothing new from the scene.

Why did that man have to chose then to call him? He had been about to tell John what he should have told him ages ago, if only he’d realized it sooner. Now that he knew how he felt about his flatmate—now that he had put it into words with a somewhat solid meaning—it seemed painfully obvious that he’d loved John for a long time. Since the pool. Since the first time the doctor had been kidnapped. Since the first night they’d worked a case together. Since the beginning, maybe. His current view obscured the past too badly for him to put his finger on the precise moment that he had fallen in love, but it had happened.

The whole love thing was probably why Sherlock didn’t like Mary too much. She was alright, for a woman, but he’d never been able to stand her presence for more than a few minutes. And he’d let John get engaged to her, and how it was really too late to stop it.

But he couldn’t let John get married before he told him how he felt. Sherlock had no delusions; he knew telling the man wouldn’t change anything, but he had to. He could not live his whole life loving a man who had no idea he was loved, but he could also not tell a newly-married person something like this. So it had to be today.

And Moriarty was attempting to draw him into some sort of game. Sherlock had taken on the task of telling John how he felt in the same way that he took on cases, and so this new case—a real case, perhaps—was just an annoying distraction to him. He preferred to solve one problem before moving onto another.

“Anything?” Lestrade asked, striding up to stand next to Sherlock.

“Nothing new. This was a waste of time. Afternoon, I’ll see you tomorrow at the wedding?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade answered, “Call me if you think of anything.”

 

 

John Watson closed the door behind them, glad to be back inside a warm flat. “Too bad you didn’t find any clues,” he commented as he unwound the scarf he wore. “He’s bound to slip up eventually.”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered distractedly. “He can slip up later. Right now I need to talk to you about that thing. From earlier.”

“You’re starting to worry me,” John said as he peered up at his flatmate. “Is this about the wedding? Do you not want to be my best man anymore?”

“No, no, it’s nothing to do with that,” Sherlock answered with an impatient wave of his pale hand. “I—”

But of course his words were interrupted by another phone call. Sherlock looked like he was about to throw the thing out the window, but he answered it, tone harsh.

“Oh, hello _Mycroft_ ,” he spat, “Nice of you to call with holiday wishes, but I’m really very—no, I don’t want to take a case right now. I’m busy. Do you even know what that word means? It means I don’t give a damn about the Commonwealth right now, sorry, and it’s just going to have to look after itself until my schedule clears.”

And with that, Sherlock hung up, sighing.

“You were saying,” John suggested hesitantly. Whatever was on the man’s mind, it was something dire. Sherlock made a show of ignoring his brother’s requests, but he had never been so blatantly rude to Mycroft before. Usually their jibes were more subtle.

“Yes, I was saying. Well, it’s a matter of some delicacy—“

The doorbell rang, and Sherlock swore, then shouted, “Go away!” as loud as he could.

Despite his rather clear message, Mrs. Hudson soon walked upstairs and said, “There’s a man here to see you about finding something—”

“Tell him to come back tomorrow.”

“But he says it’s for Christmas—”

“Oh, yes, Christmas. Tell him the day after tomorrow, then. Almost forgot about Christmas dinner,” he practically snarled the last bit.

Mrs. Hudson attempted to talk Sherlock into seeing the man, but eventually got tired of essentially talking to a brick wall and left.

Holmes sat down heavily. While Mrs. Hudson had been trying to make Sherlock see reason, John had been watching his flatmate, wondering what could possibly be going on in that huge brain of his. When the man was silent for several moments after the landlady had left, John ventured to speak, afraid he would get his head bitten off, too.

“So, the thing.”

“Yes,” Sherlock exhaled, sitting up straighter. “I just wanted to let you know that—”

His phone rang. Again. Shouting a curse that would make any sailor proud, he answered it, not bothering to edit his language for whoever was on the other end.

“Oh, Moriarty, yes, you’re incessant need for my attention is cute and very dog-like, but I just can’t play your silly games today, I’m busy.” He waited a moment. “No, it wasn’t my fault all those people died today—I didn’t bloody blow them up, now did I? pretty sure that was _you_. Christmas present? What I really want for Christmas is for you to throw yourself off a waterfall, thank you very much, so unless—No, stop talking, it’s annoying. Dear God, are you and Anderson related by chance?”

John snorted a laugh at that, despite himself. He was still confused and worried by what had Sherlock in this state.

“For a consulting criminal, you certainly do have too much time on your hands. Business slow? Have I been solving one too many of your clever little crimes? Really, Moriarty, step up your game, and for heaven’s sake, stop calling me, I’m _busy_!”

Sherlock ended the call and threw his phone across the room. “That should take care of him, at least for an hour or so.”

John stared at his friend, mouth slightly agape. “Right. Um, so. You were about to tell me—?”

“I was trying to tell you, before that fool interrupted me—” His phone began to ring from the other side of the room. Stoically ignoring it, he waited until the voicemail picked up, probably so he wouldn’t have to talk over the ringtone. At last the noise stopped, and he continued, “I was just going to tell you—well—I’m not sure how to put it, really. Haven’t thought it out that well.”

The phone began to ring again. With a short, strangled cry of rage, Sherlock stalked to the other side of the room and snatched up his phone, answering it with, “Fuck off, Moriarty! Oh, hello again, Mycroft.” Sherlock moved back to the couch, where he sat down again. “No, absolutely not. I told you, I’m busy. I don’t care if she asked for me specifically. If she wants my help that badly, why didn’t _she_ just call—no, I don’t want to talk to her. No, don’t—uugh—Hello, Your Majesty. Yes, lovely weather for Christmas, snowing and everything. Mhm. Yes, my brother was telling me—no, sorry, afraid I can’t. because I’m _busy_.”

Each time he said the word, he pronounced it more slowly, as if the rest of the world had suddenly developed some sort of mental handicap that made it harder for them to understand that one basic English word. “What do you mean, doing what? That’s my business—I don’t care if you’re my queen, ma’am, you still have no right—Of course I care about the Commonwealth, but I just can’t—oh, come on, I’m the best, certainly, but there has to be someone else in your employ, take Mycroft for example—well, precisely, I don’t have time for legwork. I’m _bus-y_! I don’t care if the fate of the world is hanging in the balance, because—why do you even care? Isn’t it enough—please, I’m not being difficult, you are, all due respect, of course—because I am trying to—I just want to be left alone! I have been trying all day to tell my flatmate that I’m in love with him and _people won’t stop calling me!”_

Silence stretched through the room, palpable and almost loud with its suddenness. John was sure that a similar silence was happening on the other end of the phone call. A strange emotion surged through him, one that was half butterflies and half disbelief, but he crushed it with reason. Sherlock was joking. He had to be, he’d said something ridiculous to shut the queen up.

The queen. The bloody queen of England was on the phone with Sherlock, and the man was trying to blow her off. But why?

John looked at Sherlock, who was sitting up very straight, holding the phone next to his face, but he’d forgotten it. The man’s face was pale—paler than usual, and his expression was one of absolute horror.

“I just told the queen I love you,” he whispered, eyes wide. Sherlock had been staring into space, but then he looked at John. “I. Well, that’s one way to get it out.” He ended the call, apparently still set on ignoring Mycroft’s request.

“You… love me. Like. Love, love?”

“Yes.” John began to speak again, but Sherlock cut him off, “But this doesn’t change anything. I know it doesn’t. I didn’t want it to. I know you love Mary, but I couldn’t let you walk out of my life without anyone knowing how I feel. And,” he paused, seeming slightly embarrassed for the first time, which was miraculous, “you’re really my only friend. The one I’d normally talk to about this. I don’t want it to mess up the wedding. I’ll be your best man, if you’ll still have me—”

“Of course you’re still my best man,” John insisted weakly, feeling like he was in a dream from which he was slowly waking up. “But I thought—I didn’t think you were interested in relationships. In love.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t.” Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. “Never been in love, but I assume this is it. I don’t want you to leave, you’re the only person who understands me and who puts up with me and—” He shook his head. “But you have to leave. You can’t keep helping me on cases, not with a wife. You’ll have a family, soon, and the risks of the job are too great.”

John parted his lips to deny that last part, but he couldn’t bring himself to, because he knew Sherlock was correct. If he had children with Mary, how could he dash off with his ex-flatmate to chase down dangerous criminals? Moriarty was still out there, and he’d be painting a huge target on his new wife if he continued to work with Sherlock after the wedding.

“You’re right,” he admitted after a while, voice soft. “I had no idea that you—I’m flattered, I am, but—”

“No need to explain.” Sherlock smiled slightly.

John stood up. “I need to go—um—you know—”

 The other man waved his hand. “Yes, of course, things to take care of for tomorrow.”

They both knew John Watson had absolutely nothing to do until that evening, when his stag party was planned (just a small affair, drinks at a bar, nothing wild; his wild days were far behind him) but the doctor was glad for the excuse to leave. His emotions were going in several directions at once, and he wanted to get out of the small flat and try to sort things out. A long walk would hopefully settle him.

As he gathered his coat and head downstairs, he heard the sound of Sherlock playing his violin. It was a song, again this time, one that was mournful and moving in ways that John couldn’t put into coherent words.

Yes. A walk. A very long walk.

 

 

Sherlock didn’t come to John’s stag party, and though the bachelor had many other friends there to drink and celebrate with, the absence was pronounced. John kept glancing at the door, hoping to see the man walk in—he was the best man, after all, he should be here!—but it didn’t happen. The night grew old, and the party broke up.

Checking his watch as he left the pub, John Watson realized it was past midnight. Christmas day. His last hours as an unmarried man, and his last hours as a resident of 221B Baker Street.

When the cabbie asked him for the address, he gave the man Mary’s, still unwilling to return to the flat. She was still awake when he arrived, probably fretting over some detail of the wedding, so he sat down with her on the couch, silent for a long moment.

Mary seemed to sense his mood. “Having second thoughts about the wedding?” she asked gently, her voice devoid of any accusation. She was such a gentle and kind woman, sometimes John wondered how a person like that could ever love him. He certainly didn’t deserve such kindness.

“No,” he whispered, then waffled, “Yes. Sort of. I just. I don’t want you to get hurt. I’ve made a few enemies along the way, working with Sherlock. I worry.”

She took his hand, h skin soft and smooth against his. “I’m not worried. If you’ve stopped working with him, why would anyone he’s crossed bother with you?”

“That’s the problem,” John continued, not looking her in the eyes, “I don’t want to stop working on cases with him. We help people, we make a difference. We’ve saved lives.”

“You’re a doctor, John, you save lives all the time. You help people that way, too.”

“But it’s—” He knew he couldn’t finish that sentence. It was different because diagnosing someone with a disease was boring in comparison with working a case. With Sherlock, he ran through the streets in the middle of the night, chasing after suspects. He had to use his mind in a completely different way—not just remembering long lists of illnesses and symptoms, a walking textbook. With Sherlock, he saw the world, really saw it, all the details that he missed before, made connections to things he’d never considered. With Sherlock he saw the big picture in the details, and the most astounding thing was that he knew no matter how many clues he picked up on, how much he perceived, Sherlock saw more. He saw _everything_.

John imagined the rest of his life without Sherlock in it—or rather, without working on cases with him. In his mind’s eye, the color drained from the pictures; he was having kids, going to parent-teacher meetings, weeding the garden, there might even be a dog or a cat or both, work every day, same thing, over and over, growing old, dying.

The whole time he’d just be dying. Having kids and a normal middle-class life was fine for a person, but he couldn’t see himself there. He couldn’t see himself happy.

What was he doing? He’d dated Mary, gotten engaged to her, come this far towards the wedding, without stopping to wonder if a future with her was best for him.

Shaking his head a little, he muttered, “Sorry, a bit tired and a little buzzed. I should go.” He stood up, then leaned down to kiss his fiancé. As their lips touched, John felt nothing—not excitement, love, joy, expectation—not anything at all.

“I’m just tired,” he murmured to himself as he walked into the cold night, looking around for a cab. “Tomorrow I’ll feel better about this. I have to.”

 

 

Staring at himself in the mirror, John Watson wondered why he looked so terribly sad, like a child who’d just witnessed his new puppy being thrown under a bus. His tuxedo was immaculate; everything was perfect. The ceremony would start in a few minutes, and miraculously, nothing had gone horribly awry yet. The reception was all in order as well.

No catastrophes. No crises to solve. _Dull_. He thought the word in Sherlock’s voice, and smiled at his reflection. Had he really just wanted something to go wrong so the day wouldn’t be too boring?

John’s smile faded. This day was supposed to be exciting because he was marrying the woman he’d spend the rest of his life with. Grooms were supposed to be delirious with joy.

So why did he feel like he was walking to his funeral?

Sherlock appeared at the door to the room, saying in a quiet, subdued voice that was completely unnatural to him, “Show time. Don’t want to be late.”

They didn’t look at each other as they made their way to the chapel. When they were in place by the altar, John finally looked at Sherlock. The man was precisely dressed, as always, his dark hair and tuxedo framing his pale face beautifully. Holmes’s eyes weren’t aimed at John, though; the consulting detective was staring at a point in space that was very far away, and though his expression was neutral at first glance, John recognized the signs of unhappiness in the curve of Sherlock’s lips and the lines around his mouth.

Watson knew the man standing next to him better than he knew anyone else, even Mary. They’d worked and lived together for so long—how could he suddenly walk away from him like this?

Music began to play, and he realized that meant Mary was walking down the aisle towards him. Tearing his eyes from his flatmate, John turned to Mary, forcing a smile on his lips.

That was the moment he knew, for certain, that he was making a mistake. What kind of happy groom has to force himself to smile at his beautiful bride?

And now he was about to make a scene in front of all his family and friends. Worse, a cliché scene, like something from one of a hundred romantic comedies that Mary had subjected him to.

To hell with it. He’d stop her before she made it to the altar, at least. That was different enough. “Stop, stop,” he said, eliciting a collective gasp from everyone that was really rather impressive. “I can’t go through with it. I’m just—not ready for marriage.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, trying not to see Mary’s horrified expression as she stood half-way down the aisle from him.

“Er, sorry. To ruin it all like this.” He glanced at Sherlock, who looked genuinely surprised. “But, um. There’s still the cake and refreshments. Might as well…enjoy.” The last word was almost a squeak. Everyone was staring at him as if they meant to murder him with sheer ill-will.

At last, Mycroft stood up; everyone turned to look at him. “Well, I won’t be accused of letting perfectly fine cake go to waste—”

“No one would accuse him of _that_ ,” Sherlock whispered to John, who almost started laughing.

“—So why don’t we all head over to the reception?”

Nothing happened for a moment, then people began to stand up, hesitantly at first, then with more boldness. Perhaps they were hungry, or Mycroft speech about cake had inspired them. It really was going to be a fantastic cake, John thought, then felt guilty.

He’d just ruined Mary’s day—her year, probably. He’d ended his own wedding prematurely because he was selfish, too selfish to give up the life he had with Sherlock.

But still, he thought as he walked alongside his best friend and flatmate towards the door, at least there was going to be cake.


End file.
